understand; he had enough to do with the piano, the mirror, the shadowed
passages, the staring windows.

But in the Square he was happy again. Mrs. Slater never ventured into
the gardens; they were for her superiors, and she complacently accepted
a world in which things were so ordered as the only world possible. But
there was plenty of life outside the gardens.

There were, on the different days of the week, the various musicians,
and Henry was friendly with them all. He delighted in music; as he stood
there, listening to the barrel-organ, the ideas, pictures, dreams, flew
like flocks of beautiful birds through his brain, fleet, and always just
beyond his reach, so that he could catch nothing, but would nod his head
and would hope that the tune would be repeated, because next time he
might, perhaps, be more fortunate.

The Major, who played the harp on Saturdays, was a friend of Mrs.
Slater. "Nice little feller, that of yours, mum," he would say. "'Ad
one meself once."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sure enough.... Nice day.... Would you believe it, this is the
only London square left for us to play in?... 'Tis, indeed. Cruel shame,
I call it; life's 'ard.... You're right, mum, it is. Well, good-day."

Mrs. Slater looked after him affectionately. "Pore feller; and yet I
dare say he makes a pretty hit of it if all was known."

Henry sighed. The birds were flown again. He was left with the